Take it from Snee: Crackshot Commando

I don’t like to brag too much about my military record. For one thing, it’s not very conducive to my online comedy career. I want you to laugh with me, not laugh because–if there’s a way for a former Space Green Beret to reach through your monitor–I’ll thumb-gouge your eyes out.

But, with the recent attacks on Connecticut Democrat senatorial candidate Richard Blumenthal and U.S. Representative Mark Kirk (R.-Ill.) that call their military careers into question, I feel it is time to stand up with these brave men.

By “stand up,” I mean to tell my own story, which is so incredible that it can only prove their claims are no less preposterous.

To put my story in the appropriate light and prove my candor, it behooves me to state outright that I am not exceptional. I’m just a normal man of an average build. I was not raised by a warrior clan or modified genetically, mechanically or however else they’re doing it in comic books these days. I don’t even have a foot-long penis. (It is an appropriately humble 11 and one-quarter inches.)

In 1999, I enlisted in the Navy.

I know what you’re thinking: booooooooring. (And some of you: gaaaaaaaaaay.)

I thought so at first, too. And that’s why I volunteered for the experimental fighter sub program.

Fighter subs are submarines, only smaller, faster, more maneuverable and armed with laserpedos. Basically, they’re like fighter jets, but underwater and come with dolphin copilots. My copilot was named Clicker and helped birth my first of 15 sons.

I served with distinction in the Top Secret Underwater War with Russia. I can’t tell you exactly when that was (top secret), but it was somewhere between 1999 and today, and it concerned Vladimir Putin’s claims to the North Pole based on Russian underwater land mapping. Most of the combat operations consisted of lobbing nukes at each others’ polar-connecting landbridges, which excited both Putin and Bush because they “finally got to use the damn things!”

In one particular operation, my fighter sub was hit by Canadian  Maple fire. (It was kind of a three-way war, not including Greenland or Iceland because they aren’t real countries.) I was forced to eject into the Arctic Ocean and survived solely on my own carbon dioxide and dolphin meat until I could dig through the half-mile thick ice.

(Fortunately, all those nukes and stateside efforts by Haliburton have made it so that no fubjock will ever have to endure that hell again.)

I was awarded the first ever Presidential Medal of Awesome, which then-President George W. Bush designed and named himself based on his favorite word.

During the ceremony, President Bush indicated to me through secret handshake code known only by members of Skull and Bones that I was to be reassigned. Space was the new front, and my underwater training made me ideal for the Space Green Beret program.

I was shipped off to the moon to train guerrillas to topple China’s helium-3 mining operations. Toppling the mines was no problem because the Chinese tend to cut corners, support beams and safety lines when it comes to mine worker safety.

No, the tough part was convincing the enslaved Tibetan miners that I was one of them, only paler and with a better space suit and jaunty green cap. At first, the only one who would even speak to me was an old man that the others virtually ignored.

During one of our hourly cave-ins–which is an amazing feat considering how little gravity there is on the moon–Tiki, the old man, was pinned under a massive H3 boulder. By channeling my underwater deep breathing exercises, and the rocket thrusters on my bitchin’ spacesuit, I was able to lift it off of him just long enough to hear his last words.

Tiki told me very slowly as I strained against the weight that he was the deposed king of Tibet. For my kindness, he promised me his hidden daughter and made me his heir. When he said enough that I got the gist, I dropped the boulder and walked out of the mine to find the other workers kneeling as I passed.

After an awed silence, I gave them a rousing talking-to that later became Aldo Raine’s “ah wahnt mah scahlps” speech in Inglourious Basterds. After we wiped out the Chinese mine bosses, we established the moon as the new Tibet, and I married King Tiki’s daughter, who had kind of small breasts but large, pointy nipples. So, that rounded out my collection of princess brides. (Well, not entirely. I’m still waiting for Robin Wright’s answer.)

When I came home, I was greeted by the new president, Barack Obama, but it wasn’t all Medal of Awesome this time. No, President Obama was pissed because I had just wiped out 20 years of back-to-the-moon space research. Apparently, America doesn’t want to be the new China and have rock stars performing free concerts against her.

So, I hung up my space spurs.* And that’s my military career … that I can tell you about … for now … [Note: edit out last ellipses.] [Crap!]

Fun Fact: In space, you need spurs to hold onto to rocket bikes. They aren’t metaphorical, unless you only pretend to ride a rocket bike to look cool.

If all of this is true, and it is, then I see no reason why we shouldn’t vote for politicians whose military records can’t be verified. For all we know, “Intelligence Officer of the Year” sounds exactly like the kind of award that the Navy would keep under its hat.

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